if wishes were stars
by The Dreaming Hare
Summary: If wishes were stars Kenya would always walk in daylight. Stahma has no need for wishes.
1. Kenya

Kenya was never ashamed of who she was. There were those who whispered as she passed in the streets, of silken bedsheets and stained reputations, but she paid them no mind.

There had been a time when her self-worth was tied to a man who had brutalized it until it was a shrivelled thing. But she had grown in heart and spirit, and knew that her body and time were hers to do with as she wished. And wish she did.

If wishes were stars, there wouldn't be enough in the sky.

Kenya whispered sweet words into the ears of those who needed so desperately to hear them. She soothed pride and hurt, and comforted with intimate touches and soft sympathies. She gave release where those with damaged bodies or minds would otherwise go unloved. She gave of herself and received in return.

She received tokens of affection that may bankrupt families, and words of love - both heated and thought out. Jewellery and furs, perfumes and books. She was surrounded by mementos of men and women who had found in her something they needed. Who had found in her a want that went so deep they couldn't help but return to bask in her presence.

She was always what someone needed. What someone wanted.

She was genuinely affectionate – but still provided a carefully timed service, bought and paid for. She didn't know how to be anyone other than herself. But it was always a carefully edited version of herself, facets remaining hidden from those who sought her affection. And who hadn't sought out Kenya Rosewater?

There was only one wish that she had never dared utter aloud. That she thought of when she prepared her room and saw herself in the mirror.

She wished for the day that someone would truly see her.


	2. Stahma

Even as a child, Stahma had known her own importance.

She was encouraged to roam free under deep burgundy skies, the watchful eyes of the help following her at every turn. She was educated, learning to fear the impending deaths of Casti and Daribo before she had even learned to read. Her explorations turned quickly to daily lessons, the knowledge of the Shanje Liro imparted to her with grave emphasis.

Stahma's beauty and cunning grew as she did.

Where once there had been a rather precocious child, a silent young woman now strode. Whispers followed her in the streets as she walked among commoners, the gazes of all races drawn to her lithe form and graceful step. They dared not approach her, of course. She looked at them from under lashes and smiled to know her place above them.

A deep curiosity resided within Stahma. Though she hid it from her father, her mother would often hint that it was a privilege to take part in new experiences. With caution and anonymity, Stahma roamed the city streets and foliage forests of Daribo. Pinning her hair and face with a veil like some women of the lower Liro allowed her to pass unseen among them.

It was in the forest that she watched her first detozwazhe.

It was not her last.

Under the thin pale leaves obscuring the sky, Stahma's heart learned to beat in sync with the performances. She swayed as the players moved, lips parting as they spoke. She knew that other races had what they called music, but even without hearing it she knew that it was surely inferior to this.

This was all-encompassing. Sounds and sights that had her hands shaking, and tears clinging to her lashes.

As the forest would empty of the players and their captivated audiences, she would lay upon the earth and stare unseeing at the tiny waxy striations of the plants looming over her.

She knew her heart was lost to this art that her Liro dismissed as beneath them. And suddenly her own importance did not seem like the blessing it had once been.

* * *

 _This time, a little of Stahma's background._

 _Detozwazhe = literally "to love/love - thorns". I smashed two Kastithanu words together to form a passable word for poetry._

 _In the show, Stahma tells Kenya she was once what humans would call a poet. I see Casti poetry as something that completely encompasses the senses. More will be said on it in a future chapter._


End file.
